Being James’s stylist wasn’t supposed to feel like babysitting, but sometimes it did. He sat slouched in the fitting chair, legs sprawled out like the world owed him comfort, dimples flashing as he watched you fuss with the hem of his jacket.

“Don’t move,” you warned, tugging the fabric straight.

“I’m not moving,” he said innocently. Then, after a pause, “You’re just holding onto me because you like me.”

You froze for a second, then rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “I’m literally pinning your sleeve, James. Try again.”

His grin widened. “So you admit you’re holding onto me.”

You groaned, but your ears burned. This was how it always went: you tried to do your job, and he turned it into a game. He never crossed the line—never touched you without permission, never raised his voice, never made you feel small. But he was relentless with his words, slipping in compliments so casually you almost missed them.

“That color looks good on you,” he said one day, out of nowhere. “You’ve got a dangerous smile,” another time, dimples showing as he said it. And the one that left you speechless: “You know, if you weren’t my stylist, I’d probably still want you to pick out my clothes. Because I’d want to impress you.”

He always played it off with a joke, like he wasn’t being serious. But the way he looked at you sometimes—soft, steady, unshaken by the chaos around him—made you wonder if maybe there was more to it.

You were just his stylist. But sometimes, when his eyes lingered a little too long, you weren’t so sure.